The Arrow and the Songstress
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: All I Ask of You, #1. *Behind the scenes of Verdant, a phantom waits in the wings, looking for the muse for his masterpiece.* An AU that uses a Phantom of the Opera dynamic between characters. Not historical, though. Complete.


**Title: The Arrow and the Songstress  
Word Count: 2398**

**Notes:** I will never trust myself alone with a keyboard again. Seriously, what am I doing? I watched Phantom of the Opera twice this week, and I think it rattled around in my brain with the Arrow season finale. Somehow they got all jumbled up, and I don't know what happened. Consider this your gift/punishment (because it's so bizarre) for 5000 hits on Technical Assistance. This is also for you, PhantomPhoenix, because you're the one that got me thinking about this. :P And you're the only person I know loves Erik/Christine as much as I do. ;)

I'll warn you: Oliver is weird in this. I mean, really weird. I'm not sure where my characterization came from because it's not completely Erik. But, yeah, I'm not sure if he creeps me out or makes me wish I was Felicity. _ Maybe both. Draw your own conclusions. :) Also, I made myself cry while reading this, so angst-fest, anyone? ;)

All the characters have a link to one in The Phantom of the Opera, so see if you can figure out where my inspiration for each comes from. The title, by the way, is a play on the poem I used for "Flight," called "The Arrow and the Song." The language is a little stuffy compared to how I usually write, but I wanted to bring in more of Phantom to this. Also, you might recognize a play on some of the lyrics here and there. As always, reviews are appreciated, even if to tell me how insane I am. ;)

* * *

He remembers often the first time he ever heard her sing, reminiscing in his blissful ignorance; he did not know during that first meeting how much she would come to mean to him. It was late one night, at a round of auditions the club, Verdant, held for their performers. The club had just changed hands—purchased by one Thomas Merlyn, a reckless playboy better known to his friends as Tommy. The ignorant boy, backed by a senator, thought it was _he_ who would control the operation, but he had quickly learned that the Arrow was to be feared. A flaming arrow into the chandelier above his star singer's head during a performance had terrified the masses, and Mr. Merlyn had then ceded to the Arrow's humble demands for fear he would lose his beloved the next time. So he simply agreed to replace the club's resident songstress, the arrogant Miss Laurel Lance.

The girl who would become the queen of the Arrow's kingdom of music was hesitant, shy and quiet in the extreme. In truth, he had seen her before among the dance troupe, but he had never spared a second glance. Despite her ballet background, she had actually stumbled as she made her way onto the stage, her blonde hair flowing in waves around her. Her eyes had been hidden behind dark glasses, and she handed a small stack of sheet music to the pianist. He hadn't expected to fall for her so, but he was under her spell from the very first note. She had the most beautiful voice he had ever heard, and he knew from that moment he would make her his own.

Several nights later, after she had been cast as the new songstress, he spoke with her. He expected her to be cold, distant as all of them were when they saw his hooded figure. But she hadn't shied away; she alone had chosen to speak to him. Somehow she had managed to find herself on the forbidden upper floor—clearly Miss Lance had not warned her replacement of the danger that lurked above.

Her hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, her dress modest but tasteful. She hadn't seen him first, simply looking over the balcony at the dancing patrons below, drunk on music and too much fine wine. How foolish the idle rich, he had often thought while watching their carefree play below; he wondered if the blonde creature from before had similar thoughts. But no, she was far too sincere for such dark musings. Though he was jaded by the darkness, the woman before him was born of the light.

"What are you doing here?" he had asked from the shadows, his voice rough with disuse. He did not speak, as he had Mr. Diggle to deliver is missives to Mr. Merlyn, and the words felt unusually heavy on his tongue, as though he were speaking gibberish. The only language he spoke fluently with confidence now was the language of music; notes dancing upon bar lines were his thoughts, and the organ in the basement his way of expressing feeling.

She started in surprise, turning toward him with a hand over her heart. "Oh!" she cried in alarm. "Forgive me, but I did not see you there." She squinted into the darkness. "In fact, I'm afraid I still cannot see you in this low light. I am Felicity Smoak, the newest singer here."

"I know who you are," came his sharp response, and he chided himself for being so rude. Music was his language now, and words so often failed him. "I should know your name well, for I selected you. Mr. Merlyn may _own_ this fine establishment—with backing from Senator Allen, of course—but it is I who control what happens here." He took a step forward, stepping out of the shadows for the first time since he had entered Verdant, then a decrepit steel factory. "I believe they call me the club ghost, but I think you can see I am very much alive."

Even as she took in the green leather of his attire, she stepped forward, appearing almost childlike in her curiosity. "They told me you did not exist," she replied, surprised. "Had I known, sir, I would have made your acquaintance earlier." He didn't tell that he had already visited her by night in his fascination—how in her sleep, he sang to her. Every night he dared come to her in her dreams, and he knew her to be just as captivated as he by his dark kingdom of music.

"Then you are the guardian angel of this nightclub," she posited, surprising him. Most thought him a demon damned to this afterlife, not an angel sworn to protect such an unworthy establishment. "Do you have a name?" she ventured then, that brightly painted mouth of hers curved upward at the corners.

Perhaps, one day, she would be worthy to learn his name, he thought, but it would not be until she proved herself to him. Though she would make a fine muse for his work, that did not mean she was to be trusted yet. "They call me the Arrow," he replied slowly, tentative for the first time in ages, "for the flaming arrow that felled the chandelier over Miss Lance's head." He frowned. "She is a wicked creature, Miss Lance. She believes she is worthy of the fame I have allowed her, but she no longer inspires my music." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Her first purpose is to serve my music, not to gain fame by courting Mr. Merlyn for the sake of her career."

Though she was beautiful and blessed as the finest songstress he'd ever heard, he did not expect her to be intelligent—such muses were a blessing he could no longer afford. "As her replacement," she asked slowly, showing her mind, "is that to be my purpose as well?" Something crashed in the club below, and she turned from him to glance behind—to identify the dissonance that tormented their ears. Even still, it pleased him to think that her thoughts were still of him, for she turned back to him quickly.

It was then he understood how lucky he was to find such a creature to serve him and his music. He strode toward her, tilting her chin between his gloved hand. That was the first time he had truly studied her face, and the first time he thought how lovely she would be at his side. "If you are fortunate, my pet," he finally murmured. Feeling as though his soul was laid bare, he retreated back into the darkness, for the first time allowing one of his singers to defeat his will.

* * *

Though he decides that he is unnerved by the effect she has on him, he still consults her frequently—both waking and in her dreams. Every night, he gains power over his willing victim, and he learns her so well. About her father, the violinist who dared leave his family behind—who dared allow his daughter to fall prey to a creature such as the Arrow. He hates himself for what he does to the girl, but it's clear she has fallen for the mystery of the club's phantom, and he cannot deny her anything, especially not when he should.

This time he meets her while waking, and he decides to show her his kingdom of music, and of darkness. He visits her in her dressing rooms, his approach stealthy as always. "You were lovely tonight, my pet," he says from her doorway, careful to keep his eyes away from the dressing curtain. Instead, he examines her flowers, finding a bouquet from Senator Bartholomew Allen himself, and the Arrow finds his nose wrinkling with distaste at the thought. He has no remorse as he pulls the card from the bouquet of roses, tearing it to pieces in his hands. And he smiles as he deposits it promptly in the garbage. Patron or no, Senator Allen would do well to keep himself from other people's muses.

Felicity's head peeks out from behind the curtain, a smile on her face. "Thank you, Oliver," she says sweetly. He knew it was foolish to give her his name, but she asked and he could not escape her request, as his decline to answer nights earlier had upset her greatly. She draws herself behind the curtain again before continuing, "But I profess I am not worthy of your praise. It is my new tutor who is to receive credit."

He smiles though he knows she cannot see him, at how generous her compliment is. He has aided her voice, certainly, but the raw talent she possesses is sufficient on its own. "That's very generous of you." He admits, "There are few who would allow a phantom such as myself to share in their glory."

"What friend would I be if I did not share accomplishment with my phantom?" she asks lowly, a smile in her voice. She has taken to calling him that since her fellow performers insist he is a ghost, and the joke reminds them both that the club ghost is just an illusion. "What have you planned for tonight?" she asks carefully.

He knows she means to ask if they will practice their music again tonight, as they are wont to do under the cover of nightfall. Her voice has inspired more music than he thought possible to write, and her voice grows more beautiful with every passing practice. "I'd like to show you my kingdom of music," he says quietly, hesitant for the first time since he has spoken to her.

She emerges from the curtain in a crimson dress that is shorter than usual, though still appropriate. "I'd love to," she replies before bounding over and taking his hand in both of hers. She hesitates for a moment, but then she peels off his glove, and she weaves her fingers though his. If she notices the scarring across his knuckles, she ignores it, and his hand feels warm for the first time in so very long.

He pulls her to the hidden basement, carefully guiding her down the weak stairs as she navigates them in her heels. By way of announcement, he says simply, "Welcome to my labyrinth—a place so dark that even night itself is blind here." The room is mostly barren, except for his beloved organ—his one true companion—in the corner. Of course Felicity notices immediately, as she is just as besotted by music as he, and she pulls her hand from his only to run her fingers across its surface.

After a long moment, she dares ask, "Oliver, do you play?" His only answer is to take up residence at the organ, running through an arpeggio for practice. After he is satisfied with the dexterity of his fingers, he launches into the movement he wrote in her name.

It is a work of dark chords, an eerie, haunting lullaby. Or, at least, that is how it starts, with strong, violent chords that sound almost angry as he dares pound the keys unnecessarily hard. But, as it continues, a series of sweet, high notes weave through the dark melody, transforming it into a nocturne worthy of Chopin. With every passing minute, the sincerity of the light, airy notes prevail, and eventually the darkness of the phantom is overwhelmed by the light of his sweet beloved.

Once he finishes, he feels as though his soul is laid bare to her, and he cannot remember the last time he felt so exposed. Clearly Felicity understands the implications of his music, as her eyes are wide, her hand over her heart. "You wrote this for me?" she asks, and the Arrow affirms with a single nod of his head. After a long moment of silence, she dares whisper, "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."

Before he can explain what his complex melodies mean for him, she is behind is organ with him, her hand reaching toward his face, a silent question in her eyes. He can deny her nothing, so of course he acquiesces to her wordless desires. Ever so gently, she slides back the hood, and, though the mask still covers the worst of his scars, he is literally exposed as her fingertips run across the imperfections of his skin. He's surprised how she doesn't hesitate to touch him, as though his deformities truly don't exist. His heart beats wildly, prepared for the moment she rejects him. She murmurs, "I always knew that you were all that I desired."

"I think you understand," he says slowly, afraid each breath of her perfume could be his last, "that I cannot give you all you deserve." He removes the mask himself, and she traces her hand over the eye that is no longer there. "I am just the mysterious Arrow, the phantom of Verdant, and I will never be more than that, my pet."

"Perhaps a mystery," she agrees, "but still a man." It terrifies him, the look in her eyes; it's far too close to admiration for her own well-being.

"The Senator, he fancies you," he surprises himself by saying. "He could give you all that I cannot. I would give you all you ask, but he could give you true happiness." He longs to say more, but her fingers fall over his mouth, only to be replaced with her own lips.

He should have learned to expect more from his angel, his songstress, but she surprises him all the same. It's a long moment that doesn't last quite long enough for his liking, but she breaks the kiss to speak. "Love me," is her single, breathy demand. "Cherish me as I cherish my phantom. That's all I ask of you." He wants to answer her, but his mouth suddenly cannot form words, so he settles for a language he knows she'll understand. He returns to his organ, and he plays her the music of the night until the sun rises in the sky. Even without words, she understands he promises her the same, but with a language that is more pure than their spoken words.

And when his angel of music smiles at him, he knows she is all he could ever need.


End file.
